


Kiss me (you, coward)

by Etalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And wants a boyfriend, Discussion about the war, Draco is a sad little ball of regret and philosophy, Epistolary, Epistolary sex, First Kiss, Harry works in a nature sanctuary, Harry's mindhealer makes him journal, In front of the Battersea Shield, In the British Museum, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Soulmates, and i love him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22679563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/pseuds/Etalice
Summary: When an anonymous well-wisher casts a soulmate spell on Harry, strange writing starts appearing on his skin.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 68
Kudos: 531
Collections: A Very Drarry Valentine's Day Exchange





	Kiss me (you, coward)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ladderofyears](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladderofyears/gifts).



> Dear Ladderofyears, I was delighted to be assigned as your pinch hitter for this exchange. I've read a lot of your fic and it was all so good; I loved that I got the opportunity to write something for you. I hope you enjoy reading about my soft boys slowly getting to learn to know each other as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> As usual, none of this would have been possible without my incredible betas, A. and A. They whipped my terrible spelling into shape, screamed at me, and helped me when I was in serious despair at the structure of the story. I am so very lucky to have both of you in my corner, you make me a better writer and a happier person too.

On the day the writing first appears, I break down in the loo of a Muggle cafe and cry for an hour, sitting in a dirty stall. I don’t know why it happens, some face on the street looked too much like Fred, I suppose. The couple at the table next to mine made me think of Lupin and Tonks, perhaps. Later, I’ll think about it and realise these things are bound to happen. I’m still grieving, I’ll tell myself. I might never stop grieving. It’s normal. When it happens, though, it feels the furthest thing away from normal. It feels wrong and hopeless and unreal, so I fish a pen out of my pocket. It is black and it feels smooth in my fingers. My mind healer made me carry it with me in case I feel like journaling. I did not tell her that no one outside of books ever felt like journaling. I did not tell her I wasn’t a gothic heroine and I wasn’t paying her to make me sound like one, I was paying her to make my emotions be normal again. So I pocketed the pen and here it is. I take the cap off. Press it to the textured peach wallpaper above the tiles. “I FOUGHT TO LIVE AND NOW I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF,” I write in big, shaky letters. _How’s that for journaling?_ I think, and I forget about it.

Then, the word _eggs_ materialises in neat silver-white letters on my left elbow.

* * *

It might start earlier than that, if I’m honest. Several days earlier. It might start with the newspaper article. I don’t read it, of course. I never do. But still, it goes like this:

Who Will Heal Our Broken-Hearted Hero?

Harry Potter was spotted last weekend at ex-girlfriend Ginevra Weasley’s wedding. As Ms Weasley, seeker for the Holyhead Harpies, tied the knot with her girlfriend and owner of highly fashionable sportswear line _Circe_ , Pansy Parkinson. The hero of the Wizarding World was seen nursing a glass of wine, wearing a frown. Not even best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, managed to bring a smile to the face of the heartbroken saviour as he watched the love of his life marry someone else. Witches wishing to mend that heroic heart will have to find the man first: since he dropped out of Auror training, our Harry has been virtually invisible and his London residence has been empty. Where has the lovelorn lad been running away to? We wish we knew!

There are pictures of me too, looking… well… sad. I guess that’s one thing they didn’t have to make up. It’s not that I am not happy for Ginny, I am, I really am—it’s just that lately I’ve been finding it a little harder to smile. There’s no reason for it, not really, Luna talked me into working at her sanctuary and rehabilitation facility for magical creatures after I quit the Aurors and I love it more than I’ve ever enjoyed firing spells at people and getting yelled at in training sessions—it’s just that I’ve grown increasingly unsure that it’s all that I wanted or hoped or expected out of life. Watching Ginny in her white tuxedo, with her arms wound tight around a beautiful girl and happiness all over her face, I wondered if I was ever going to find someone too. I wondered if I was ever going to be this happy, this certain that I’m doing the right thing. And as much as I tried to hide it, I still look like a wet, miserable cat in every single picture.

* * *

I don’t notice the writing on my skin at first. There is much to do here. The litter of kneazles Luna brought in last week need to be fed every hour, and I’ve been preparing the Erumpent’s winter feed. By the time I finally see it, others have already started to appear on my skin. I catalogue:

Right shoulder:  
Anthemis Tinctoria  
Below left nipple:  
Back at 2pm  
Left thigh:  
No, mother, I do not need your help.  
(Also left thigh: Traced words. Illegible.)

I ignore it. A part of me knows I shouldn’t. A part of me knows I should be alarmed. A part of me knows I should floo Hermione about it, or talk to my healer about it, or do anything at all, but I can’t find it in me to care. There is much to do here, I need to nurse an ill mooncalf back to health, and I need to prepare the enclosures for when the Thestrals give birth, and I can’t afford to waste time worrying about my skin. So I push it down and I don’t think about it again.

Instead, I busy my mind with work and try to forget that I am increasingly unsure of what I want to do with my life. I don’t always succeed. I try my hand at journaling again.

 _I’m wasting my life,_ I write late one evening on the pages of a brand new notebook. _I’m stashing it away like an unwanted gift, like some great-aunt’s old china that’s too precious to throw away but too ugly to use._

 _I don’t know what else to do. I’m not sure I even know I am,_ I add. Then, I read it again and cringe. “So much for not being a gothic heroine”, I tell the krup with a broken leg that’s curled up on my bed. “Merlin, I sound like such a mental case.”

"I’m never letting anyone read that," I decide as I close my journal and get ready for bed.

* * *

Are you alright?

The words are the first thing I see when I wake up, lazily stretching along my right arm. And that’s when I finally realise something is seriously wrong.

I find a quill and a parchment and I write in capital letters:

THERE ARE WORDS APPEARING ON MY SKIN AND I DON’T KNOW WHY. HELP?

Then, before I can write Hermione’s address, I feel a warm, tingling sensation on my wrist. I push up the sleeve of my ratty cardigan to reveal yet more writing.

What do you mean, you don’t know? It’s the _Amorae_ spell, you idiot.

Charming. This morning, my skin was inquiring about my mental health but it appears it’s moved on to judging me now. I toss the parchment aside.

After I’ve stared at my arm for a good quarter of an hour, I give up on the hope that any new writing will appear. So I take a pinch of floo powder, cast a glamour on myself and head into London’s Magical Library to elucidate the mystery of what the _Amorae_ spell even is.

I come back with a large book in my arms. On its cover, the words “Magic in the Middle Ages” glimmer in gold lettering. That night, after I’ve fed the animals and done all of my chores, I sit on the sofa and start reading.

7.1 Amorae or the influence of social mores on magic

It has long been pointed out by scholars that certain spells might fall out of use, not because they are harmful or because they are rendered inefficient or inadequate by the progress in magical spellwork, but because they don’t fit with the social mores of the time. Amorae is a perfect example of such a spell.

It was first described by Aethelred the Alarming in his 1124 Manuscript _Of Spelleworke and Magick_ , although some scholars, such as Plutocrasius Merriweather, have theorised that it can be traced back as far as Antiquity. Little is known of the use of the spell until the late 13th century; in the 14th century, however, it seems to have gained in popularity, and by the middle of the 15th century, its use is attested, both in literature and in magical theory, as a mean for young people of all social strata to ensure they are entering a successful marriage.

There are many detailed accounts of the spell being cast. One of the best perhaps can be found in the 15th-century novel _Theodesia_ , where Björn Bottlebottom describes the use of the spell in rural Herefordshire in the following terms:

[...] the excitement was great in the village, for the day of the spell casting had finally come. From her room, Theodesia watched the young people gather in front of the town hall. The girls had adorned their hair in ribbons and stood to one side, huddled together like a flock of geese, while the boys stood opposite, waiting anxiously in their Sunday’s best. When the elder walked through the doors, the chatter ceased and silence fell on the congregation. Theodesia felt that she should have been out there with them, but she knew the marks of her skin would only seal her fate, for she was doomed to love him who she could not have. She held back her tears as she watched the elder cast the spell on the crowd. Then, each young person came forward to write their full name in the sacred book of the town, as the others surveyed their skin with anticipation or fear, in case the name appeared. One by one, the young people were paired off, some taking each other in their arms with unmasked glee and others approaching their designated soulmate with careful glances. Soon, they were all paired off and Theodesia was left alone in her room to consider the cruel trick fate had played on her.

_Theodesia_ (1479) 164-165

It is plain to see from that extract, that the performing of the spell would have been a familiar occurrence for its readership, as none of the particularities of the spell are explained. Furthermore, it is not only well known but it is also extremely ritualised and codified: not only do the young people not cast the spell on themselves, instead relying on the elder to do it for them, there is also the existence of a sacred book in which each one of them must write their name in order to be assigned to their soulmates. It can be said that the ceremony is very much a part of the social mores of the time and that it would have been a milestone in a young person’s life, an important aspect of coming of age. Less than three centuries later, however, the practice has entirely disappeared from wizarding society.

Much has been speculated on how much the rise of the sacred twenty-eight influenced its falling out of favour, and it is the subject of heated debate in academic circles. One thing we do know, however, know, is that in 1726, a young man by the name of Thaddeus Syrenus Travers, who was engaged to be married to a well-born young lady, found himself under the influence of the spell. His family went to great lengths to keep condition quiet but scandal broke out when it turned out the family’s milkmaid had his handwriting all over her skin. Thaddeus’ uncle, Perseus Travers gives the following account of the incident in his personal diary:

As I feared, the news of my nephew’s ailment broke out. As I was reading my newspaper in the morning room, the footman came in and informed me that...

The quote goes on for a boring quarter of a boring page and this is the point where I can’t take it anymore.

Who wrote this? Were they being paid by the word? Were they even trying to speak English? My brain hurts from trying to figure out the meaning of the sentences and I feel like I haven’t learned anything useful. I thumb through the book. The chapter is sixteen pages long and I immediately decide I’d rather die without ever breaking the spell than read it to an end. I let the book drop to the floor and sprawl dramatically on the sofa.

Someone must have cast the spell on me, I realise. I push myself to my feet. And the people who love meddling with my life, I know only too well, also love informing me that they have. I walk to the pile of unopened letters sitting on the small wooden table in the kitchen and I take a deep breath. This is going to take a while.

* * *

A little over an hour later, I finally find the letter. It’s written on disgustingly pink, disgustingly rose-scented paper and it goes like this:

Dear Harry Potter,

I do not wish to interfere with your private affairs, but I couldn’t help but notice the dreadful sadness emanating from you when I looked at those pictures in the Daily Prophet. I can’t imagine how it must have felt like for you, watching Ginny on the happiest day of her life and knowing that you’ve lost her forever. But, Harry, I come bearing hope for you, for I am quite certain that Ginny wasn’t meant for you.

Do you believe in soulmates, Harry? Do you believe that someone out there will fulfil your every need, wish and desire? Do you believe there is someone out there who was meant for you? Many young people discard that idea as romantic nonsense nowadays, but there was a time when people believed in it. There was a time when people knew how to find their soulmates and there was a time where a certain spell was commonly used, among young people of marrying age, to ensure that they would be happily wedded and that their marriage would last.

I have taken the liberty of casting that spell for you, Harry. I know I perhaps shouldn’t have. My friends always tell me I meddle too much, but it is my firm belief that no one should spend their life alone and without the light of love to guide them. And especially not you, Harry, not after all you’ve done for us all.

I hope it helps you find happiness,

Sincerely

A well-wisher.

Useless. I crumble it up in my fist and toss it at the wall ragefully. One hour, I’ve searched through inane love letters from idiots! One hour! And for what? For this? For this drivel about soulmates? I am no nearer to understanding the whole thing than I was before my trip to the library!

Just as I’m about to give up, I realise that whoever is on the other side of this, whoever is writing on my skin—they know what this spell does. They also knew what I wrote to Hermione earlier, and I’m almost certain that whatever I write shows up on their skin.

 _Worth a shot,_ I decide and pick up my pen before I can think about the fact they must have read my pitiful attempts at journaling.

So, this Amorae spell. What does it do?

Almost instantly, I feel the skin on the inside of my right elbow tingle.

It matches you with your soulmate.

Does it work?

I realise they probably don’t know.

Can you see everything I write?

I don’t know, and yes. That’s how you’re supposed to know who your soulmate is. Don’t worry, though, the writing fades after a day or so.

I read it’s easy to break. Do you know anything about that?

We need to share a kiss. Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not kissing you.

You don’t even know who I am!

Immediately after writing that sentence, I remember with more than a little shame that they have witnessed more than one graceless breakdown. Why on earth would they want to kiss me?

No, I don’t, but I know who I am. Trust me. You wouldn’t want to kiss me if you knew.

I pause. _You wouldn’t want to kiss me if you knew._ It’s settled then, I think. We live with each other on our skins for the rest of our lives.

I don’t admit it to myself, but I feel unreasonably hurt at the thought he wouldn’t even kiss me to break the spell. It chafes uncomfortably with all my fears of being alone forever, all my doubts about my life.

I decide I won’t write back.

Then, of course, at two in the morning, I write back. I can’t sleep. Every stupid thing always seems so much smarter when you can’t sleep. Every stupid thing always makes so much more sense in the dead of night than in the light of morning. I take out my journal and open it.

Maybe I would. Want to kiss you, I mean. There’s no way you can know for certain.

I pause. I made my bed, might as well lie in it, right?

Sometimes, what everyone sees in you is not who you are. Sometimes, you live your entire life thinking you know yourself and then, you realise that you really don’t. Sometimes, you think you have your entire life all figured out and then everything you thought you wanted turns out to be everything you hate and you don’t even know what to do anymore.  
  
I’m not sure I believe the spell works. I’m not even sure that I believe in the concept of soulmates if I’m honest. But all I thought I knew turned out to be wrong so maybe I should see where it goes. Maybe we should see if perhaps we’re meant to meet now, to… fall in love or help each other be happier. I don’t know. I figure, that if we hate each other, fine, we’d know that stupid spell didn’t work, and then we can share a kiss and be done with it forever, but what if it worked? What if we’re missing out on something beautiful?  
  
I guess what I’m trying to say is—we don’t know each other. And I’d like to try to get to know you, if you’ll give me the chance.

When I finish writing, my eyes grow heavy. I don’t even read my words again. I feel satisfied that I’ve helped fate along, free now that I’ve opened my heart. Nothing to lose, I tell myself as I slip underneath the covers of my bed, and quickly fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Predictably, _Maybe they haven’t read it yet,_ is my first thought upon waking up. Promptly followed by _maybe I can still trace the words out and they never have to read it_.

Then, before I can find my pen again, a word appears on my wrist.

_No._

Then, next to it: _I_

Then, both words are angrily scribbled through. I stare at my skin, fascinated.

 _Okay_ , my skin finally says. _I’ll give you the chance._

I smile and reach for my pen.

Thank you.

We need to set some ground rules if we’re going to do this. One: We do this one month. If there’s still nothing after a month, we meet and kiss and never talk about it again. Two: You never try to find out who I am. Three: We do not tell anyone about this.

If I agree to your rules and promise I will not try to find out who you are, will you still answer some questions for me? I’m not trying to pry but I still feel we should know some things about each other. You know, just to make sure we’re really compatible? Maybe give us something to talk about? I can’t very well go on sharing my deplorable journal entries about how depressing I find the concept of living if I want to stand a chance of coming across as even slightly appealing.

You have three questions. I reserve the right to not answer them if I think they give away too much.

Okay. Yes. Well, first, you need to know that if you’re a woman, I’m probably not going to be interested in you, so I’m assuming you’re male. Am I right?

You are. I am assuming you’re male too, for the record.

Good. Yes. I am. Male, I mean. Moving on. Second question… ~~How old are you?~~ Wait, no, that’s too personal, isn’t it? Let me put it this way: I’m twenty-six. Do we have more than a five year age difference?

It’s not what I’m asking, not really. As far as I’m concerned, he could be fifty and I don’t think I’d bat an eyelash, but I want to know if he’s lived the war too. If we were in this together, if he’ll understand when I inevitably tell him that I don’t know how to grieve.

No. No, we don’t. One last question.

I pause for a while. I can’t think of anything to ask him that won’t give his identity away, but I don’t want to waste a precious question either. Then, I ask:

Have you ever been in love?

For a long time, no answer appears. Then, later that night, I feel my shin grow warm. It’s almost time for bed then and I’m sitting in the soft light of my bedroom, listening to the wireless and absentmindedly stroking Freya, my favourite kneazle

That’s a hard question. I think I have, but I didn’t know it at the time. The family I grew up in, they wouldn’t have approved of the boy I had feelings for. Because he was a boy, and for other reasons too. And you’ve got to understand how important it was to me that I pleased my family, then. It was the most significant thing in the world. It sounds silly now that I’m not a child anymore, but for the longest time, I was taught that family was all that I had, and all I’d ever have, and that if I didn’t live up to their expectations, I wouldn’t have anything anymore. So I never admitted I had feelings for the boy, not to anyone and especially not to myself. Might have been just as well, really. I don’t think he thought very highly of me. I would likely just have embarrassed myself.

Thank you for answering my questions.  
  
I’m glad we’re doing this.

It is all I can manage before Freya, outraged at the journal I am holding precariously perched on top of her, lets out a distraught scream and both of my hands in her fur are needed to pacify her again.

* * *

It takes me until the middle of the afternoon on the next day to find a strategy to get him to talk to me.

Your turn to ask questions.

I scribble the words, sitting on the grass in the mooncalf enclosure and balancing my journal on my knee. The answer comes almost instantly.

Are you a Muggle-born? I am assuming you are. You seem to be using a pen instead of a quill.

The question takes me by surprise. I pause.

I am not. Since the war, it’s been easier to use Muggle things, though. Fewer memories associated with them, I guess.

It is not exactly a lie, about not being a Muggle-born. Besides I imagine the second day you’re talking to a boy is a bit too early for a detailed exposé about your abusive family.

I’m sorry to hear, though I really should have expected you to have some bad memories because of the war. You did tell me you were twenty-six. Same year as the Saviour of the Wizarding World, isn’t it? Did you know him? What did you think of him?

My heart deflates as I read his questions. Of course, he’d be interested in the famous Harry Potter. Of course, he’d want to know all about him, because who doesn’t? I sigh and run my hand over my face.

No identifying questions, remember? Also, even if I knew him, I don’t think I’d want to tell you about him. With all that’s been said and written about him, I think it’s high time the boy gets a bit of privacy, don’t you?

You’re right. I apologise. That was insensitive of me.

Just as I push myself to my feet and prepare to go back to work, I feel the skin of my calf heat up.

I knew him, you know. Not well, mind you, but we crossed paths a few times. I don’t think anyone knew him all that well, if I’m honest. His friends maybe did, but not us. All we saw was a symbol or a celebrity. A weapon, a tool, a menace. I don’t think we ever saw the person he really was. No use regretting it now, I guess. But I always try to be a little more considerate, now, a little kinder. I always try to remember we’re all human.

I smile. Maybe I shouldn’t be too quick to judge people either after all.

* * *

After that, we seem to settle into a comfortable routine. We take turns asking each other questions. One a day has become our unspoken rule. We write it early in the morning, and we usually wait until evening to discuss it. It feels nice. Familiar. Some nights, when I undress, I stare at myself in the mirror and contemplate his handwriting crawling on my skin with a warm feeling behind my ribs.

* * *

If there was one thing you could change in your life, what would it be and why?

He’s good at cutting straight to the core of things. At finding the right words and asking the difficult questions. I answer him in the quiet of my living room late that night.

I don’t know. It’s not that I’ve not done things that I regret. I mean, I was in a war. People I loved died because of the decisions I made, and I can’t ever say that I don’t regret that. But I’m not that person anymore. And I’ve also learned that the stuff that happened happened, you know? You can never take it back. You can never change it. You’ve got to accept it if you want to stand a chance to forgive yourself for it.

You’re probably right. I don’t think I should be forgiven, though. I don’t think I deserve that right. I need to learn to live with the knowledge of what I’ve done. I need to turn it into something productive too, I imagine. If one day I can honestly say that I took all the mistakes I made and helped others not make the same, that day I’ll be a happy man.

He’s good at this kind of ruthless honesty too, the kind that makes my heart ache and my fingers long for his. From our talks, I’ve gathered we weren’t on the same side of the war. I was surprised to realise I wasn’t put off by this realisation. I’d changed so much, since the war, I figured maybe everyone else had too.

I let the nib of my pen rest again the paper, immobile, for a little while. I want to argue that he deserves love and forgiveness, but I know him well enough by now to know he doesn't take kindly to be told he deserves anything at all. So instead, I write:

That’s all we can ever do, really. Learn from our mistakes and help others not make the same.

That night, after I fall asleep, I dream of him. I’m holding him in my arms and he’s whispering his name into my hair and, though I can't quite make it out, I am filled with the bone-shattering certainty that I have never felt this happy in my entire life.

* * *

Two weeks into our discussions I ask him:

Do you think it’s possible to know another person entirely?

You should really define what you mean by knowing someone. Is it even possible for a person to know themselves entirely? Is it possible to be aware of every emotion? Every motivation?

I smile. He’s not wrong. I’ve grown fond of his quick wit and propensity to find fault with my questions. I rephrase.

Fine. Do you think it’s possible to be entirely honest with someone else? Do you think it’s possible to always share, to the best of your understanding, your feelings and motivations with someone else? And more importantly, do you think one should?

I like to think it is possible, yes. I don’t think it comes naturally, though. I think you need to make the conscious decision, every day, to be honest with someone. We’re always going to want to lie. Sometimes, it’s because we’ve done something wrong. Sometimes, it’s because we’re ashamed or embarrassed. Sometimes, it’s because we want to spare the other person’s feelings or because we don’t want to bother them with our problems. I think you’ve got to be careful with the truth, but you’ve also got to be careful with lies, or they end up taking over your entire life and you can’t talk honestly anymore. I think I’d like a relationship with as much honesty as kindness will permit. It is healthy for some people to have a secret garden and some couples don’t need to tell each other everything, but I’ve grown up with too many lies and too many half-truths and I’ve promised myself to stop lying when I left my family behind.

I don’t pause to think about what I write next.

I’m never as honest as when I talk to you. I’m usually a pretty guarded person. I find it difficult to open up, I guess. I feel comfortable with you. And it feels good. I think I’d like honesty in a relationship too. I think I’d like to make the conscious choice to share. I like the idea of deciding to trust the person I love, over and over again, with all the important things in my life. Is it silly that I think about you as one of the people who knows me the most completely? You don’t even know what I look like. I could be ugly. Even if I’m not, I could be the complete opposite of what you find attractive. Maybe I’m not at all your type.

Do you want to know what my type is?

It is the first time he offers information freely. My heart is beating in my throat. I can’t write my answer fast enough and then, I await his description of the ideal man with bated breath, feeling every bit the lovelorn heroine I’ve always insisted I wasn’t.

I think I could find a man beautiful no matter what he looks like, but if we’re talking about purely physical criteria, my ideal partner would probably have dark hair. Striking eyes. A gorgeous smile. I imagine he’d be quite muscular, too. The type of muscle you get from an active lifestyle, mind you, not the type you get from the gym. More importantly, he’d have to be kind. He’d have to be able to remind me to be brave when I’m not. I think I’d want him to be passionate too. Able to learn from me and teach me new things in turn. It would definitely have to be someone I could talk to, about everything. Someone I could trust blindly and who would know how to make me feel loved.

My pen is on the paper before I can stop myself.

I’ve got dark hair. I've been told have pretty striking eyes too. And you know I work with animals, shovelling manure all day has definitely given me muscles. Dubiously scented muscles, but you never said anything about smelling nice. So I ought not to be too much of a disappointment when we meet.

What about you? What would your ideal man look like? More importantly, what would he be like?

Blond hair. Definitely. I’ve got a thing for blond men, it’s gotten me in trouble more than once. Elegant. My ideal man needs to have some sort of charm to him, class. He needs to make up for the fact that I have the social manners of an Erumpent and take the focus away from me in public. Quick wit, definitely. He’d have to make me laugh, but most of all, I think he’d have to make me think. He’d have to be able to challenge me when I have my head too far up my arse to make sense, too. I want someone who isn’t afraid of being blunt but who will also always be as kind as he can be. I want someone who’ll put up with all my weird quirks and accept me as I am, for who I am and what I can offer.

I toy with the idea of finishing that paragraph with: you. I want him to be you. Anything you are. Anything at all. This is what I want, if you’ll have me.

I think better of it.

* * *

Do you sometimes imagine what it might be like when we meet?

He asks me this less than one week before we’re due to finally end this… arrangement we have. It’s not his first question of the day; I woke up in the morning to a short line on my ankle asking me what my favourite subject in school was.

I don’t point out that he’s breaking our unspoken rules. Instead, I answer:

All the time.

I dream about you, sometimes. About touching you.

It’s the first time he’s been this forward with me. This honest. We’ve always danced around the issue of our attraction to each other before.

I wish your fingers were stroking my skin right now instead of your words. I wish I could touch you right now. I want to touch you so bad.

What would you do, if you could touch me?

My breath catches in my lungs at his words. Everything, I want to say. Everything you want. I would do it all. I would give you everything I have. More than that even, if you let me.

I’d start with your shoulder. I’d touch the skin there, softly. Then, I’d run my fingers gently along your collarbones and up your neck. I’d caress your jaw bone, I’d learn its shape by heart with my eyes closed. Then, I think I’d move on to your mouth. I’d trace your lips with my fingertips, I’d press one inside your bottom lip until the pad of it is wet.

 _And I’d kiss you_ , I think.

I’d take your finger into my mouth. Suck it gently until your breath turns uneven and your skin turns hot.

I let out an undignified moan at those words. It is ridiculous how much I want it, how much I want _him_.

I’d hold the back of your head and I’d kiss you, deep and passionate. I’d kiss you like I’ve always wanted to kiss you, like I’ve been waiting for you my entire life. I’d kiss you with all the urgency of a first kiss and all the indolence of a kiss that isn’t the last.

I’d kiss you back. Oh, if you had any idea of how badly I want to kiss you. How I’ve wanted to kiss you for days.

I’d hold you tight against me. I’d feel your body, your entire body against me. Your flesh pressed against my flesh. It’d feel good, just knowing you’re there, in my arms. Then, I’d start moving against you.

I’d moan your name into your neck. Oh, you’d tell me your name, wouldn’t you? I’d whisper it like it was a prayer. I don’t think you’d even have to touch me to make me come.

I would anyway. Touch you. I would explore every part of you. Every inch, every fold, every hill and valley. I’d take you into my hand whispering soft words of praise all the while. You’d let me do that, wouldn’t you? I would caress you, taste you, worship you. I would make you come as I stared into your eyes and whispered your name.

I’d take your cock in my hand while you stroked me. I’d learn the hardness of it, the softness of it, too. I’d commit it all to memory. And as I come, I’d tell you that I love you. That I’ve loved you for a while. That I don’t think I've ever loved anyone as much as I love you.

That would be enough to make me come. Your voice and your words and your hands on me, stroking and twisting, blinding me with pleasure. I’d tell you I’m in love with you too. That I’ve wanted you for longer than I care to admit. That you can have me, all of me. Everything I am and everything I’ll be.

At some point during the exchange, my hand has moved to my crotch and I’m stroking myself in earnest now, imagining his hands, his mouth, his skin. I let his words dig a nest into my heart until I feel like the months of April: entirely new and bursting with life. When I finally come, I suck at the skin of my wrist where his last words have appeared and I quietly mouth _I love you. Fuck. I love you._

As soon as I’m able to hold my pen again, I tell him that I love him.

He answers that he loves me too.

That night, when I stare at myself naked in the mirror, I imagine the words covering my skin are bitemarks and nail scratches. I imagine they’re remnants of him, touching me.

I touch myself again, before I go to sleep, all the while imagining his hands on me, his mouth on my neck and his name on my lips.

* * *

I'm awoken by a warm sensation on the skin of my stomach the very next day:

I want you. I don’t want to wait anymore.

I answer immediately. I’ve taken to carrying my pen and journal in my pocket wherever I go. I do not tell my mind healer what for, but I’ve been feeling a lot happier lately. I’ve been smiling a lot wider. I think she’s happy with my progress.

Me neither.

It feels ridiculous, dragging this on now that we’ve admitted our feelings. Unnecessary.

Today. Before we can both overthink it. Muggle London?

Yes. Today. Four O’Clock? Somewhere public but not too crowded. British Museum? In front of the Battersea Shield?

Yes.  
  
I can’t wait to see you.

* * *

At quarter to four, I am losing my mind behind a glass case containing an oddly shaped marble sculpture, mysteriously labelled _Mother Earth._ I’ve been getting carried away and falling in love, but I don’t get to do those mundane things, do I? Because as soon as he sees me, I’ll be Harry Potter again. I’ll be the hero and the saviour, and he’ll forget all about the anonymous boy leaving chicken scratch words on his skin. I take out my journal, hoping he’ll see my words.

I need to warn you about one thing. I’m sorry I haven’t told you before. There is a distinct possibility you know me. Please remember the person you’ve come to know through our conversation. Please.

He answers almost immediately.

The same is true for you. I can assure you we definitely know each other. I’ve known for a while, since you’ve told me your age. I'm twenty-six too. We were in school together. Please… Just… Please. Give me a chance too.

There is nothing I’d love more. I’ll be waiting for you in front of that whatsitsname shield. Meet me when you’re ready.

I take a deep breath. No helping it now. I was in school with the man. He was on the other side of the war. I realise I don’t even care who he turns out to be, I realise I love him whoever he is. I take another deep breath. Then, I set out to find our meeting place, striding quickly across room after room of delicate objects and priceless treasures. When I finally find the shield, there is a man in front of it. A slender man with hair a shade of blond I’ve never seen on anyone but…

“Draco,” I whisper.

He turns around, his entire face petrifying at my sight.

“You…”

I can see my own handwriting gracefully curling around the tendon of his neck. It’s from when I wrote him earlier, I realise. That thing about not judging me. My heart stops beating. This is happening. This is really happening. I’m in love with Draco Malfoy. This is the man I’ve wanted for longer than I care to admit. This is the man who made me smile and think and feel. This is the man I’ve been waiting for my whole life. It all clicks into place, suddenly.

I raise my sleeve, slowly.

“I love you,” I say, and my arm says it with me, with his words and in his precise hand.

I don’t know what I expect from him, in that moment. I expect him to take me in his arms, maybe. To kiss me, even. To say something witty or cutting or self-deprecating.

What I don’t expect from him is to take several steps back while repeating that “I can’t… it can’t...” before turning around and running away.

And yet, this is exactly what he does. I find myself alone in room 50, staring confusedly into a piece of embellished bronze.

My body springs into action of its own volition and I chase after him. “Kiss me, you coward,” I yell, startling a small herd of old ladies on a guided tour. It does not make him stop and by the time I make it into room 41, I have to admit I’ve lost all trace of him.

“Kiss me, you coward,” I hiss at a helmet with odd eyebrows and a moustache sitting in a display case. “You said you were going to,” I add, barely above a whisper.

Then, when I’ve quite finished feeling sorry for myself, I resolve not to let him run away from me. I take my journal out of my pocket and decisively walk back to room 50, sheepishly smiling at the old ladies as I walk past them again.

I sit in front of the Battersea Shield and I open a new page.

I love you. And I won’t stop telling you until you come back and kiss me. I won’t stop until you’ve told me that you don’t want me, and exactly why you suddenly don’t want me. Because I still want you, Draco. I still love you.

Then, I turn the page.

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

I write until the page is entirely black with my words. Then, I turn the page and start again.

I don’t know how long I do it for. Sometimes after I’ve turned the page for the fifth time, I hear his voice behind me.

“I love you too,” he whispers.

I stand up and turn. Every inch of his skin is covered in my handwriting.

“You complete and utter madman,” he whispers again, “you have no idea exactly how in love with you I am.”

I could cry at the words. (I smile instead.)

“When I saw you, I figured there was no way you’d stay. Not you. Not for me.”

I take a step towards him and take his hands in mine. His skin is warm and solid under my fingers.

“You were always too good for me. I caused you too much harm,” he continues in a broken voice, “I’m sorry I ran. That was not my most dignified moment, I’ll admit, but I couldn’t take the rejection from you. Not again. Not when I’d finally let myself believe there was some happiness to be found for me in the world. Not when I’d finally let myself believe I could have this.”

I squeeze his fingers in my hand and move closer still, our faces almost touching. He smells like vetiver and pine. His eyes are bright and beautiful and grey in the same way that a stormy sky is grey—dangerous and gorgeous and ever-changing.

“Kiss me, you coward,” I whisper against his lips.

And then, he does.


End file.
